CSI: Endurance
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Gil Grissom, absent from Vegas for months, returns, along with Catherine Willows, as explosions set the city on edge. The team races to find the bomber-could it be Lady Heather? Our take on the finale-with our ending!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Based on photos and promos, we've written a short story-a few chapters-on how we'd like to see when CSI airs its last episode. Enjoy-and, as always, we would appreciate a review!_

 **CSI: ENDURANCE**

 **Chapter 1**

In the waning hours of a fogless summer night, the sounds made by the small dingy seemed as loud as a towboat pushing an ocean-going ship but were almost unnoticeable if anyone had been paying attention. The dark-clothed figure in the dingy pulled an oar into the small boat and let the ripple of his last row carry him to the side of a much larger boat.

A sharp vibration rippled beneath his feet as the two vessels touched. Expecting the tremor did not make it less startling but Gil Grissom quickly prepared for boarding the larger boat. Months ago, he had gotten "sea legs"; adapting to the rhythmic waves bobbing the boats in the harbor was the least of his worries as he hefted a waterproof bag to his shoulder.

He had followed this sleek sailing boat from Mexico's Sea of Cortez; he and three others had watched as smugglers had not even attempted to disguise their activities. Yet the smugglers were the small fish, not worthy of time it would take to have them arrested. The crew of this boat—with their expensive clothes, cars, and women—were near the top of the chain.

The forty-seven foot yacht was designed for high performance sailing yet as the crew sailed it along the coast of Mexico and California, they had never pushed the sail boat to its potential. The smaller, older boat Grissom sailed had been able to stay within sight of this one, almost overtaking it as they reached San Diego. He had watched as the crew had brought it in, waited as they left the boat, returned, and left again dressed for a night on the town. An hour later, he was in the dingy rowing across the harbor.

Carefully, his hand found a cleat and he pulled himself into the cockpit finding purchase on the non-slip surface. Silently, he thanked designers for making all sailboats similar as he slid back the hatch and opened the door. Seconds later, he was in the main cabin.

Using a small flashlight and a very expensive camera, he quickly opened cabinets in the galley, moving a few things around with his gloved hand, before turning to berths lined along the sides. He could not do a methodically search but knowing what he was looking for helped. Rapidly, he took photographs. And in the aft cabin, he found it, taking more photographs of the smugglers' treasure. In the excitement of his discovery, he had failed to hear the warning—a whistle blown by one of the three men who knew what he was doing—before the rapid tattoo of boots on the dock caused him to look up. Alarm and disbelief etched across his face. After all the months, after all the carefully concealed work, after the stealth and silence, it had come to this.

He heard boots hit the deck as he entered the main cabin, having enough time to hit "upload" on the camera, and holding his hands above his head, he shouted, "I'm below deck—not armed. My hands are above my head." He knew the drill and yet he was surprised at the appearance of what appeared to be a swat team surrounding the hatch. All pointing assault weapons at him.

 _A/N: And another chapter soon!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: A short story-enjoy! Thanks for reading!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 2**

In all the commotion that occurred in the next five minutes, Grissom heard, very clearly, the whistle that let him know his photos had been uploaded and would quickly hit the World Wide Web through Facebook, Twitter, Google, and any other media spreading device out there. It would take weeks before anyone deciphered the source but by then, the damage was done.

He also figured he had tripped a silent alarm and brought the local sheriff's marine patrol to the harbor.

And he had gotten caught—definitely not in the plan.

He sighed as he removed gloves following the instructions of a young patrol officer. A fingerprint device quickly scanned his thumb and index finger—there was no longer a delay while using a fingerprint kit or the need to hand-deliver prints back to a lab. In a few seconds, they would have his name.

"Sir!" The young man called, "You—ah—you need to see this!" The words were shouted over Grissom's head but as he turned, the patrol office asked quietly, "Who are you?"

Quickly, turning back to the officer, Grissom could see the flashing lights on the fingerprint screen and, even upside down, recognized the three letters. "FBI"—his eyes widened—"that's a surprise," he mumbled.

The higher ranking officer arrived; again, an officer much younger than Grissom. A puzzled look came over his face when he saw the flashing 'FBI' on the fingerprint device.

"What's your name, buddy? And why are you trespassing on this yacht?"

From behind him, Grissom heard another voice say "His camera is clean. No ID in his bag."

"Shit—who are you working for? And what's your name?" The senior officer asked, stomping around on the dock with boots heavy enough to sink a ship. When Grissom remained silent, the officer said, "Well, you are under arrest as John Doe until we work out who you are. Take him up to the patrol car—let me have his bag. Who doesn't have ID now-a-days?"

The younger officer snapped a plastic tie around Grissom's wrists and turned him toward the flashing blue lights of the patrol cars. As they walked along the dock, Grissom in front, the officer said, "You must be someone important to have the FBI hiding your fingerprints—why crawl onto a rich guy's yacht in the middle of the night?"

Directing his words to the young man, Grissom said, "I'd like to know too—about the FBI."

Before they reached the car, two television news trucks turned into the parking lot, heading to the area where the sheriff's patrol vehicles were sitting.

The patrol officer with Grissom made a grunting sound, saying, "We have company—now your face will be all over the morning news. Someone will know who you are."

Grissom knew better than to ask that his face be hidden, so he stopped near one of the news trucks and waited until a cameraman was a few feet away. Turning to the young officer, he said, "I guess this is your spotlight. You might want to straighten your vest."

And then with all the shouting between the two news teams, quickly joined by protests from the senior officer, Grissom realized the news teams had seen his photographs while the sheriff's group had not. They were arguing about two different events—the sheriff's officer was completely confused by the news reporters' questions. Before the uproar diminished, another news truck pulled in followed by a van from the U.S. Coast Guard.

It took several minutes for the Coast Guard officer to wrestle control of the situation and, as questions were asked about smugglers and the capturing and killing of marine life—in this case, an endangered Totoaba fish—the sheriff's team stepped back and remained silent, each realizing they had gone in on a trespass violation and missed the bigger story.

Grissom, forgotten in all the upheaval, backed up to the patrol car, leaned against the door, and watched as the turf wars played out and dawn began to light up in the east.

As the sun made a bright streak across the horizon, another car pulled into the lot. A lone man stepped out of the car and walked toward Grissom. Looking into the sun light, Grissom could not positively identify who was coming in his direction until the man was fifteen feet away.

Then he said, "Nick Stokes—I heard you had moved to San Diego."

Stopping ten feet away, hands on his hips, Nick, with a familiar grin, said, "If this don't beat everything I've ever seen—Gil Grissom—arrested on a charge of trespassing. What on earth are you up too?"

A/N: _We know Nick isn't in the movie-but this is our story! Appreciate hearing from readers! More soon!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Enjoy!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 3**

Nick did not ask anyone for permission, but slipped a knife under the plastic zip-tie and cut it from Grissom's wrist.

"You won't do a runner on me, will you?" He grinned sheepishly as he teased his former supervisor. "What are you doing here, man?"

Grissom rubbed his wrists, rolled his shoulders before he shook his head. "My fingerprints didn't come up—do you know anything about that?"

Chuckling, Nick shook his head. "I'd tell you if I knew—and you haven't told me why you were caught on a rich man's sail boat! But I did see early morning 'live' news and there was your face! Something about smugglers—well, I knew Gil Grissom couldn't be smuggling—not the Grissom I knew!"

Grissom shook his head. "No, not smuggling." Before he could say anything else, two more trucks flashing blue and red lights joined the others.

Nick leaned against the vehicle, crossed his arms, and asked: "You want to tell me why locals, the Coast Guard, and now, Fish and Wildlife are showing up because you were on a boat that wasn't yours?"

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Grissom quietly told Nick what he had been doing for months. As the story unfolded, Nick's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He kept shaking his head, at times he would grin; several times, a quick frown crossed his face.

Finally, he said, "Is this like—like Greenpeace? Earth First? Something like that?"

"No—well, yes. I guess you could say something like that. We aren't really officially anything—just a few old guys who decided we didn't like what was happening with endangered species. In this case, it's a fish in the Sea of Cortez. No one was looking at what these guys were doing! So—we did."

"What were you doing?"

This time Grissom chuckled. "Keeping ourselves out of trouble, we thought. This is the third boat we've followed back up here. Got on board the other two, took photos, sent them to Fish and Wildlife, and within twenty-four hours, both were confiscated and their owners were arrested for smuggling fish bladders."

"Fish bladders?" Nick laughed, shaking his head. "Fish bladders? What—why?"

Grissom explained—in detail—the poaching of the large endangered Totoaba fish. "We were working on another project when these local guys told us about all the fish vanishing—finding dead fish with bladders removed. So—so we decided we'd do something." Grissom shrugged. "We planned well—just didn't think we'd get caught this soon—and for trespassing."

Nick remained where he was as another truck entered the parking lot. "It's getting attention now! You wanna go get coffee? It's only a matter of time before the deputy remembers you were caught on a boat that wasn't yours."

Grissom frowned, asking, "Do they always send out the SWAT guys?"

Nick laughed.

Grissom added, "Do you think you could get my backpack?" He heard another quiet chuckle as Nick left him for several minutes, returning with the dark blue pack, holding the camera in his hand, extending both to Grissom.

"Thanks."

"Ahh," Nick waved a hand and started to his car. "Let's go get coffee. I've got to take you downtown for a statement, but you won't be charged with anything. All these smugglers—drugs, people—and now you tell me about fish bladders—the marine patrol keeps an eye out for anything unusual. Probably saw you get on the boat and thought you were after drugs." Glancing back at Grissom, he added, "Come on. We'll get coffee and then I'll haul you downtown and we'll find out why the FBI has your fingerprints covered." He grinned. "We know someone at the FBI."

After getting into his car, Nick glanced at Grissom. He had to ask: "Does Sara know about all of this?"

"No—no, she doesn't."

 _A/N: Thank you again-more to come!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: We are covering everyone! Enjoy!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 4**

In Los Angeles, FBI Special Agent Catherine Willows woke to the sound of her phone buzzing; an alarm she had set weeks ago when an official "persons of interest" list had crossed her desk. She had read the list, jaws dropping open at one name—Gil Grissom was listed under "eco-terrorism" suspects. The man she had known for decades as an upright, law-abiding science geek—her former supervisor and, for years, her best friend, was on a list for terrorism. She didn't know what to think, but decided the information had to be incorrect, a case of stolen identity or a mix-up in fingerprints, perhaps. Having no way of contacting the man—he had dropped off everyone's radar after the death of his mother and after he and Sara Sidle had called it quits—she had quietly arranged a minimum level of security should any agency seek information about him. At three o'clock the alarm had sounded.

In less than an hour, she was in her office and had tracked the fingerprint search to San Diego. But when she searched for further information, she found nothing. Puzzled by the lack of any information—and if it had been an arrest or injury or death, she would have found something—she pushed it aside and turned to the files stacked on her desk.

By the time others in the office started arriving, bringing the smells of coffee and breakfast, Catherine was deep into an open case the Los Angeles team was working. The ringing of her personal phone surprised her, mainly because she got very few calls during working hours. And the name of D.B. Russell on the screen caused her to answer immediately.

A few minutes later, she was leaving the office, saying "I'll take the first flight out."

 _In Vegas:_

"Third one in a week," D.B. Russell said to his team. "All hands on deck for this one. Casualties have already risen to seven dead—dozens in the hospital."

"How's Jim Brass?"

D.B. shook his head at the question coming from Greg. "He's in emergency—he'll make it." Gathering his kit, he continued, "I've called Catherine. She's on her way."

"Will she be able to help—or will the FBI take over the bombings?" Sara asked as she lifted an extra kit from a shelf in his office. "We—we're so short-handed—I thought I'd take this one."

D.B. nodded. Finn's case has been sitting in his office for weeks; she would not need it again.

There was little small talk as the group left the lab; driving to the Eclipse Casino, they maintained silence until they reached the perimeter of the scene.

Greg breathed a noisy groan before saying "Wow!"

The debris field covered the street in front of the casino; large windows had blown out, plants and small trees had fallen across the front entrance. Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances wailed sirens; their flashing lights adding to the chaos as the investigators arrived.

The first and second bombings, a gas station and a strip mall, had been small compared to this one. Escalating had been the word used by the sheriff when the call had come in. Within minutes of arriving, D.B. walked through the debris wondering out loud who could be responsible.

With little direction, his own team spread out and were already busy working, quietly, meticulously, and systematically covering the casino floor that had been torn apart by a homemade explosive device. D.B. knew it was miraculous that more people had not been killed and wounded.

Several hours passed before their work was interrupted when Catherine Willows arrived. And with her, Jim Brass.

"Thank God," Sara whispered as she hugged her long-time friend.

"Easy, Cupcake," he said with a grimace as her hands touched his back.

"You shouldn't be here," Sara said.

The older man made a wiry grin, saying, "I wasn't about to miss all this especially when my boss arrived to pick me up."

D.B. and Catherine were in deep conversation as Brass explained to the others that he had been blown forward as he walked through the casino. He showed them the approximate spot where he had been—the floor already marked with a series of colorful investigative markers.

Greg said, "It appears the bomb was beside a one of the big containers of plants. The cameras in this place are amazing—caught everything and everyone."

"The Eclipse was built with state-of-the-art equipment," Brass said. "But it may be difficult to pick out who left this package—the place has been over-flowing for weeks."

Sara reached out and touched his arm. "Are you sure you feel okay, Jim?" She missed working with him yet she knew he was enjoying his new job as head of security at Catherine's casino.

His hand covered Sara's. "I'm fine—this job has been a stroke of luck—a good thing. How are you doing—be honest."

Smiling, she nodded. "We've got a bomber to catch."

 _A/N: Thank you for reading, a special thanks to those who review! More to come!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: First-thank you to a favorite reader for giving us an idea! Thank you, NR, for always supporting us! Thanks to everyone for reading! NO-we have not read a script and our story will not end as everyone thinks the movie will end-its called creativity! LOL!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 5**

After taking all the collected evidence back to the lab, D.B. called Sara into his office. Jim Brass and Catherine Willows were all ready there. Immediately, Sara realized they knew something she did not know.

"What?" She asked. "What's happened?"

"Nothing bad," D.B. assured her as he motioned for her to sit down. "But something interesting—and I want your help."

"Sure." Sara sat next to Brass; he placed his hand on her arm, patting her with a warm fondness that Sara had almost forgotten.

D.B.'s fingers riffled several papers on his desk before he continued: "Do you know where Grissom is?"

Sara chewed her lip as she shook her head. "I don't. I—I haven't talked to him in months. He—ah—he made it clear that—that—we…"

"Okay—I didn't think you did," D.B. said. He lifted one of the papers from his desk. "We've got this bombing situation—and we all know its escalating. Catherine can't work on the casino case—but Jim has been deputized a little while ago to help us." Clearing his throat, he pushed the paper toward Sara. "We can use all the help we can get—Catherine learned a little while ago where Grissom is. And—I wonder—I'm asking—would you ask him to return to the lab? We could use his help."

When Sara's mouth dropped opened, Catherine spoke. "He's in San Diego—on a boat."

Sara's mouth opened and closed several times before she said, "I haven't talked to him in nearly two years and—and the last time, he made it clear he did not want to hear from me again."

Jim Brass made a sound similar to that of an angry bear; Sara glanced at him and he patted her arm again.

D.B. said, "He got in some trouble—trespassing—got caught on a boat that didn't belong to him."

Sara's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Nick got him off the hook, but he was told to leave the area," D.B. added.

Catherine interjected, "It's more than trespassing, Sara." Nodding toward the paper, she continued, "He's on a watch list—a terror watch list. When he was caught early this morning, his fingerprints were blocked—something I had done when his name appeared on an eco-terrorist list—so I got a first notice about the search. It's more than trespassing. He—he's doing something good, but he's also breaking the law—sort of. He needs to—to help us—and I'm sure I can get his name removed from that list."

Not believing what she was hearing, skepticism edged her words as Sara said, "Gil—on a terrorism list? On a boat? He—he was doing research somewhere in Mexico the last time we talked—some remote area. What's he doing in San Diego?" She paused, looked at Brass, and continued, "And why would he come back if I asked him?"

D.B. sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and said, "Nick talked to him for quite a while. He—Grissom said he knew he had messed things up—he regrets what he had said to you."

Sara shook her head; her mouth twisted as she frowned. "He knows where I am—and—and he hasn't tried to get in touch." She kept shaking her head. "I don't think I can help—I—I don't know if he would come."

"Would you ask?" Catherine asked. "The bombings could become a FBI case, but this lab—the Vegas lab—has the expertise to solve them. Except the lab is so short-handed."

Sighing, overwhelmed by what she had just heard, Sara said, "Give me his number. I'll call."

D.B. said, "We don't want you to call."

An hour later, Catherine drove Sara to the airport where a private jet owned by a consortium of casinos was waiting. As Catherine talked with the crew, Sara, the only passenger, belted herself into one of the seats. She could not believe she was flying to San Diego; harder to believe she was going to ask her long estranged husband to return to the lab he had left years ago. She wasn't convinced this would work.

In her hands, she held a file that contained information that caused his name to be placed on an eco-terrorist list. As the jet engines powered up, she opened the file and began to read. An hour later, she tucked the file into her bag, astounded by what she had read, and watched as the breath-taking view of San Diego and the Pacific Ocean came into sight.

 _A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. FF notices have been slow, so thank you for your comments-we'll respond on the next on. More to come-quickly!_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Thank you for reading! Enjoy!**_

 **CSI** : **Endurance**

 **Chapter 6**

The power of private jet travel did not slip by Sara Sidle as a suited man extended his hand to her as she stepped off the plane.

"We were told to have a car ready," he said as he indicated a mid-size SUV near a hanger and handed her a key. "We'll stay here until we hear from you."

Sara smiled. "I appreciate that—it may be a while—or not."

Returning her smile, the man replied, "We'll be here."

She had directions for the harbor on her phone and, from the airport, it was supposed to be fifteen minutes; with one wrong turn, she made it in less than twenty. She had gotten a slip number from Nick who offered support but quickly declined her invitation to go with her.

"I think this needs to be between you and Grissom, Sara."

She knew from his voice he was smiling. "Check back with me after your visit," he said before ending the conversation.

For several minutes, she sat in the parking lot of the marina—observing. Quiet now, she knew this was the place where Nick had found Grissom, where Grissom had been trespassing on a yacht—trespassing—she knew he had been taking photographs and not stealing or vandalism. And even after reading the entire file produced by Border Patrol, she found it hard to believe that Gil Grissom had been listed as a possible terrorist—eco-terrorist. Except she could believe the part about eco-terrorist; he'd walk through a bed of razors if it involved some rare and endangered butterfly.

Add fish bladders to that, she thought as she climbed out of the car, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

The boat slip was not hard to find as all were posted with small white signs but her route took her away from the very expensive yachts to the area where smaller boats were lined up. She circled a fuel station and stopped.

Several yards in front of her was the man she had loved for nearly twenty years—seventeen years, she thought—two years since she had seen him; almost that long since they had talked about—she would not think about their last conversation. She started walking toward him as he bent over the back rail of a small white boat.

Seconds later, as another boat powered by, he looked up, into the sun. He dropped the boat fender back into the water as she approached.

"Sara." He extended his hand to her. His smile was one of bewilderment.

There was nothing else for her to do but take it and step aboard the boat. A few seconds later, he was hugging her—and she was hugging him.

In what seemed to Sara an arc of electricity connected them, bright and pulsing. Their eyes met and each leaned imperceptibly toward the other.

Then he kissed her.

He will pull away, she thought, and when he didn't, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into his embrace, her mouth welcoming the suprising contact with his lips.

A horn sounded, quite nearby, and Sara's eyes flew open. She pulled back to see a shy smile on Grissom's face.

"Hello," he said in a voice so soft, so filled with emotion, that tears formed in her eyes.

Quickly, she dropped her eyes, angry with herself for letting her own emotions surface.

His hand stayed on her arm as he said, "I'm guessing Nick called you."

Feeling the heat in her face and thoroughly put out with herself when she had been determined to keep this meeting on a civil, non-intimate level, she cleared her throat and took another step back. The rocking of the boat made her feel even more off-balance.

"Not Nick." The gentle swaying of the boat was causing dizziness; she felt lightheaded.

Grissom tightened his grip on her arm. "Are you okay, honey?" He moved closer; his hand took her elbow and turned her toward a step. "Sit down—it helps sometimes."

Sara let him guide her to the step, but remembered her obligation to keep this meeting to its intention. She said, "It wasn't Nick." She sat down while Grissom knelt in front of her. Tears were forming again so her eyelids dropped. "This—this is an official request, Gil."

He took her hands in his. "You know I got in trouble?"

Nodding, she said, "That's part of it. Catherine," she managed to look at his face again. "Catherine's casino—someone planted a bomb in her casino. It's not the first one—two other places in a week—but this time people were killed." She took a deep breath. Grissom's face expressed confusion.

Sara continued, "She had seen your name on a list—so she flagged your fingerprints after that and—and that's how she knew where you were. She and D.B. talked to Nick and learned you were told to leave and no charges would be brought." Pausing long enough to take a quick breath, she changed direction, asking, "Why on earth are you doing? Why does the Border Patrol have you on a watch list for eco-terrorism?"

He tried to interrupt, but Sara did not stop, "They—D.B. and Catherine—want you back in Vegas to help us—the lab—with these bombings." She lifted her gaze to the sky, continuing, "We are so short-handed. Nick came to San Diego. Finn—you didn't know her—died a few weeks ago and her death has really taken a toll on D.B.—much like Warrick's death did to—to…" She finally stopped talking.

"Sara, we need to talk—you may hear from others…"

Sara had no wish to hear confessions concerning his—his life; she'd read enough in the Border Patrol file to know he was traveling to San Diego on a regular basis but had not called her in twenty months. No matter how hard she tried, her emotions were in turmoil. Three hundred miles—he had been an easy drive, a domestic phone call away—but he had never contacted her.

She held up a hand to halt his words. "There's no need to—to tell me what you've been doing." Her steady voice surprised her. "I'm here to ask for your help—Catherine says she can get your name off a list of eco-terrorists if you return to Vegas." Fumbling into her pocket, she handed him a card. "Here's her number."

Rising to his feet, he took the card.

Neither said anything for several minutes while he paced a few steps one way and then the other.

Finally, he stopped in front of her. "I—I don't think I can help, Sara."

Standing, she felt a sudden feeling of sadness as thoughts of the past filled her mind. She had known he would not return.

To her surprise, he took her hand. "I know—I know this cannot be easy for you. To come here—to learn what I've been doing." His hand covered hers. "Sometimes it's beyond bearing—thinking about you—about us—what we had—I've—I've found myself lost, Sara."

She wanted to comfort him, to tell him everything would be all right, but she held back, unsure if she knew the man in front of her.

Stepping around him, grabbing the rail of the boat, she said, "There have been days when I know the world is a crazy place, Gil. This is one of those days. Vegas has a killer setting off bombs—escalating to who knows what. We don't know—but I know—we could use Gil Grissom—the Gil Grissom I knew—who never gave up—who pushed us to our limits and then more."

When he dropped his head, Sara managed to throw her leg over the railing and get herself on the dock, standing. She looked back at Grissom.

"I—I—I've done what I said I'd do."

When she turned to leave, Grissom remained on the boat, standing in one place, studying Catherine's card. She did not turn to see his wave.

 _A/N: Okay-now do the right thing-review!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you for reading and for those great reviews!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 7**

Sara learned another bonus of being the lone passenger in a corporate jet—she could cry in private. And she used an entire box of very soft tissues. By the time the plane landed in Vegas, she had iced her face enough to reduce puffiness and redness but, inside, she was still in an emotional landslide.

When she had agreed with the plan as explained by Catherine and D.B., she had been skeptical; the absence of Gil Grissom in her life for the past two years should have been enough to prove she had no influence on the man. He had shut her out of his life—found a place with a loosely organized group named "OceanPeace"—a play on Greenpeace but with no money, dependent on individuals to form associations with like-minded persons—and no funds if a person was arrested.

OceanPeace—she scowled as the name formed on her lips. She had wanted to volunteer for Sea Shepherd and he had found a thousand reasons not to go. Including teaching in Paris for a year. Digging up graves in Peru. Studying declining butterfly populations in Mexico and radiation effects on insects—in Japan. Anything but living with her in Vegas. She did not protest or criticize or whine but when she asked if he could be there for her birthday, she got an ambiguous answer that eventually led to an unofficial stalemate that had lasted for twenty months.

As the jet waited to taxi to the terminal, Sara had time to think about the missed calls, the cancelled plans, Ronald Basderic; she realized she had been traumatized to the point of being dysfunctional for weeks. Rubbing her forehead in an attempt to erase memories, she knew she was at fault as much as he was for this—this—breakdown of their marriage.

They both thought it had been a good idea when Ecklie had called needing someone to help in the lab. At the time, she needed insurance; Grissom's mother had moved to Vegas and Hank was living a nomadic life between sitters, Greg, and Nick. A year later, her mother was living in town—no easy accomplishment with her history, and creating another tie to Vegas. So Sara had remained in Vegas—they had purchased a real house, not a condo, but a house with a yard.

Her husband had spent six nights in the house before leaving for Japan. A "once in a life-time opportunity" they had both agreed.

Sara could feel tears forming again but with deep breaths and rapid blinking, she managed to force them back as the pilot announced they would be at the terminal in a few minutes. It was then she realized she had not talked to Nick; she had not called D.B. None of them knew she was returning or the answer she had gotten from Grissom.

So she was surprised to see D.B., Jim, and Catherine waiting. Of course, Catherine would know she was returning, she thought. The broad smiles on their faces were a surprise; they thought she had been successful.

Waving from the window, then realizing the tinted windows were too dark for them to see her, she gathered her bag, and left the plane.

D.B. met her at the steps, smiling, hugging her, saying, "I knew you could do it!"

Catherine was over talking D.B. and Sara missed what he said, but understood. Grissom was coming to Vegas, driving. He'd be there by midnight. She didn't know if she was angry or happy and everyone seemed to think it was because she asked him. And then she realized nothing was making sense; she'd been awake for twenty-four hours.

The next thing she knew Jim Brass was opening the door of the car, asking for the key to her front door.

"I didn't mean to go to sleep," she said as he took her hand.

He smiled, "You've had a long day."

Once inside her home, she did not bother to shower or change her clothes; she stretched across the bed and, in an instant, was asleep.

Hours later, the constant buzzing of the phone woke her up.

"There has been another bombing," D.B. said. "I'll pick you up."

A school—minutes before it opened for the day—had been the target. One classroom had been destroyed; the teacher, who had arrived early, was dead. Several other teachers were injured.

After Sara got in D.B.'s vehicle, he asked, "Are you going to be okay with Grissom working with us?"

Silent for a minute, she said, "I'm fine, D.B. But—he told me he couldn't help. I didn't know he was coming until I got off the plane."

"Well, he called Catherine after you left, talked with her about the bombings, and said he would come. He's meeting with Ecklie now."

By the time D.B. and Sara had gathered supplies from the lab, they had heard the ripple of excitement; Gil Grissom was returning to the lab after seven years.

Sara knew he was in the building, yet it took her by surprise when Grissom met her in the hallway, carrying a bag in one hand, and looking completely at ease in the lab—as if he had never left.

Smiling, he said, "I'm back."

 _A/N: More coming...we plan to finish this one by Saturday, before the CSI final movie airs. Or-maybe we'll continue it!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: More to come-and the mention of..._

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 8**

It was less awkward than Grissom thought it would be. But, of course, he knew Sara was the consummate professional. Once at the school, they worked. Arriving students were devastated; he caught glimpses of children moving to another building but was too busy to notice anything else.

The casino bombing had pushed the explosions into the federal arena and now the explosion at the school would mean official FBI involvement. Catherine and D.B. were handling that part of the investigation.

And then Greg found another body. Charred beyond recognition but quickly identified as a female.

"Do you think she's the bomber?" Morgan asked. "A woman bomber is rare."

They all agreed. Greg reminded them of another rare female criminal when he said one name.

With the discovery of the body, someone needed to go to the morgue.

Grissom volunteered, saying, "I can visit with Doc."

Sara breathed a sigh of relief. No one had mentioned Grissom's return; no one had mentioned anything about Sara's marriage in months.

But as soon as Grissom left with Dave and the body, the silence was over.

"Well," Greg said, moving closer to Sara, "what gives?"

Morgan was right behind him. She said, "I heard he was returning to help. Are you two…?"

Shaking her head, Sara said, "I don't know—he told me he couldn't help—wouldn't help—don't remember which it was. When I left him, he was standing on his boat in San Diego."

"Grissom! On a boat!" Greg laughed, "That's a surprise—did you know?"

Sara shook her head again. "I knew nothing, Greg. I know almost nothing now."

Greg was persistent. "What's he doing on a boat? Catherine said she had talked to Nick."

Sara kept tagging and bagging evidence, thankful there had been no children in the room when the bomb had exploded.

"Come on, Sara. Tell us what's going on," Greg pleaded. He laughed again, adding "Inquiring minds want to know!"

Placing the bags she was holding into a box, Sara looked around the wrecked classroom. Ninety percent finished and they had found little evidence that looked promising.

She said, "Keep working and I'll tell what I know—which isn't much—but we need to find something—we haven't found a timing device or a detonator. So keep working."

All of them worked their way through destroyed desks and battered books and shredded papers while she told them about Grissom's 'almost arrest', Nick's arrival, and then her trip to San Diego. She did not repeat anything she had learned from the Border Patrol file. She did not say that Grissom had been placed on an eco-terrorist list or that he had frequently been in San Diego.

"Found it!" Morgan shouted as she held up small fragment of a detonator.

For a while, Grissom was forgotten as the trio swabbed, packaged and labeled knowing their work would be evaluated—and probably criticized by the federal agents flying into Vegas.

From the collected evidence, Sara thought the bomb had been on the charred body, but she kept quiet with her theory.

Greg found a small piece of plastic, not much larger than his thumb with an oily film that clearly showed the ridge detail of a fingerprint. He handed it to Sara saying, "We can't read this one on the scanner—you take it in."

With only a moment of hesitation, Sara left. She knew what was going on between Greg and Morgan and she knew they would work until exhausted. Plus she wanted to be there when the fingerprint was identified; maybe it was the clue they needed.

Meanwhile, Gil Grissom was enjoying being in the morgue with Doc Robbins. The two men had been more than working colleagues; they had been good friends and the relationship was quickly re-established as Grissom was shown new equipment and procedures. They did not discuss the past.

Once they were dressed, the two men went to work in a methodical way that recalled their long years of working together.

"Certain habits die hard," Doc said with a chuckle as Grissom pulled on protective gloves with a snap.

Grissom grinned as they bent over the corpse. "The odors never leave the brain."

A few minutes later, Doc Robbins pulled an embedded object from the chest of the body. "It's a cross," he whispered as he held it up. "I'd say this person was holding the bomb when it went off."

Grissom took it in his gloved hand. "A necklace—ornate." His finger rubbed across the surface as he frowned. "Have fingerprints been taken?"

Doc continued working as he said, "Yeah, burned to a crisp. I don't think we'll get anything but Dave took two fingertips to the lab."

When Sara walked into the lab, she found Hodges, Dave, and two others attempting to get fingerprints from two burned fingers.

"Try this," she said, handing over the plastic object. "Greg found it at the school. There's pretty good ridge detail."

Later, Sara would realize it had taken less than two minutes to identify the partial print with ninety-five percent accuracy. They stood silently, letting the screen flash the name of Heather Kessler.

"We don't know who is in the morgue," Dave said quietly.

Several more minutes passed in silence before Hodges said, "Who tells Grissom?"

"Tells Grissom what?" asked the man from the doorway. In his hands, he held a plastic bag.

Dave and the two lab techs suddenly had immediate work elsewhere; as Grissom walked into the room, they hurriedly left.

Hodges cleared his throat and moved the screen so Grissom could see it. He said, "We—I mean—Greg found—Sara brought it in. And—ah…" he stepped back so Grissom could see the screen.

Sara felt as if she had stepped into a dream—a nightmare—as Grissom looked at the screen, dropped the plastic bag on the table, and whirled around, exiting the room without another word.

Sara followed.

 _A/N: More coming! Now-tell us what you think!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Moving along-_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 9**

On the way out, they met Jim Brass who immediately said, "I'll drive" without knowing where they were headed. Sara realized the two men had met earlier; she had no idea when either of them slept—if they did.

"Heather's house," Grissom said as Sara crawled into the back seat.

Jim Brass' eyebrows shot skyward but without hesitation, he drove in the direction of Heather Kessler's house; he knew the address. He said: "She had a fire about two months ago—I think the place is boarded up."

Grissom was in the front seat and shot a look at Sara in the back seat. "I didn't know that," he said.

Brass cranked the car; mumbling under his breath, he said, "Well, you have been out-of-town for—how long—running up to two years now?"

"I don't think its Heather in the morgue," Grissom said as Brass turned on flashing lights and hit the accelerator.

Minutes later, they stopped in front of what had been a grand house but was now boarded up with evidence of fire on its brick front wall. Grissom was out of the car and half-running to the front door when Brass called out:

"We don't have a warrant!"

The front door was locked and, as Sara and Brass watched, Grissom searched around the porch, overturning several pots, running fingers along edges of the porch, until he found a hidden key.

Brass glanced at Sara but said nothing. A few seconds later, the front door was open and Grissom entered the house. Sara followed him, her gun in her hand.

Inside, furnishings were still in the house but showed the damage of fire; chairs were overturned, lamps broken, draperies pulled from windows. Sara noticed an odd splattering of red on several of the over-turned chairs and splotches on the floor. Her first thought was blood, more recent than the fire damage.

"What do you think of this?" She asked, but Grissom had walked into another room. She turned to see Brass, standing outside, talking on his phone.

Walking carefully through the house, unsure of what they were going to find, Sara found herself at another doorway leading to a terrace. When she turned the door knob, it opened easily—to easy, she thought.

Deep inside the house, Grissom opened the door of a room he had visited in the past; a small room near the kitchen that he remembered as a large pantry. His flashlight revealed it was no longer a pantry.

His brain had a freeze moment before he could process what he was seeing. "Oh, Heather…what have you done," he muttered as he looked at what was on the table. He recognized the makings for bombs—detonators, timers, batteries, wires—were spread on the table. He could not believe his eyes as he carefully walked around the table.

In the dim light, he almost stepped on something; backing away and then moving quickly, shutting the door, running and yelling at the same time.

"Get out! Get out!" He ran into the living room and could not see Brass or Sara. "Sara! Jim! Get out now!"

The front door was open and he ran outside. Relief flooded his body when he saw Sara near the car. "Where's Jim? There's a bomb in there!"

Immediately, Brass arrived from the corner of the house and opened the trunk of his car while Sara dialed 9-1-1.

"How do you know it was an active bomb?" Brass asked as he lifted a fire extinguisher.

Confused, Grissom said, "Two lights were blinking. It looks like a bomb!" He made a cylinder with his hands, saying "Probably a pipe bomb."

Sara was still on the phone when fire trucks arrived followed by a fleet of law enforcement vehicles. D.B. and Catherine were both talking when they arrived.

"Bomb squad is right behind us," D.B. said.

"Do you think its Heather?" asked Catherine to no one in particular.

Grissom was turning in circles as the bomb squad captain arrived, telling everyone to move away from the house. Which meant everyone took two steps backward while the captain kept shouting for them to move away.

Sara's phone rang. Seeing Greg's name—she stepped away from the group.

A group of FBI agents arrived but, like everyone else, they were pushed away from the house as the bomb squad prepared a bomb tech for entering the house.

On the phone, Greg said he had heard whose fingerprint had been on the plastic object. "Doc Robbins says the charred body was holding the bomb or it was placed on top of the body. Flash fire on detonation. But—get this—she was probably dead at the time."

Sara knew the red blotches she had seen in the house had been blood. "What evidence is there for her being dead?"

"Hands had defensive wounds. Doc found a stab wound below her sternum."

Sighing, knowing she would not get back into the house for hours, Sara said, "I think I know where she was before she ended up at the school."

The two talked several minutes about what was happening at Heather's house.

Suddenly, an explosion shook the house; flames blew out the door. Brass grabbed Sara and pushed them both behind a car. The only people who stayed in place were the bomb squad.

A few minutes later, in the middle of the chaos, Grissom asked, "Jim, can I borrow your car? I need to check on something."

Brass handed over his keys.

It took some time for everyone to make it back to sheriff's office, but between the Vegas lab and the FBI much had been accomplished with the evidence from the casino and school explosions. As much as could be done with charred bits and pieces.

The casino explosion had been simple enough; an explosion to create havoc in a public space causing death by objects in the area. In the casino, slot machines, glass, flower pots, and trash cans had become deadly weapons.

The school bomb had been one to scare. The teacher had arrived early, probably stumbled over the body with the bomb, and had become a victim by being in the room.

"It was apparently strapped to the charred—second victim—and detonated by a timer," explained one of the bomb experts.

Eventually, someone asked about the fingerprint.

D.B. said, "We have people looking for her—Heather Kessler. She—she's known to the department." He had already checked out the LadyHeather website. Catherine had provided additional information about Heather—and Grissom.

"Where's Grissom?" he asked.

Brass spoke up, "He has my car—needed to check on something." He shrugged when everyone stared at him. "Maybe he needed—I don't know—maybe he needed a bathroom!" A thought had been niggling around his mind since Grissom abruptly left Heather Kessler's house but he wasn't going to form it into words.

"He hasn't changed at all." Catherine said; her disdain was obvious. "Leave's with no explanation; dear God, I don't know how..." She sensed a change.

A hush rolled through the building as footsteps echoed on the tile floor. Catherine saw the surprise register on faces before she turned.

In a whisper, she said, "Well, I'll be damn—he really hasn't changed."

Jim Brass, who was standing beside her, softly said, "I'd like to punch his jaw right now."

Grissom and Heather Kessler, wearing a form-fitting red and black dress, were walking toward Ecklie's office.

Brass straightened his jacket, saying, "I'm going to stop this love-fest right now. She goes into interrogation—not Ecklie's fine office."

Stepping into the hallway, Brass pointed at a door on the right. He said, "Well, well—long time no see, Heather."

For a second, she appeared confused before her detached persona returned.

Grissom frowned.

Brass stepped to the door of the interrogation room, pushed the door open, and waved his arm for her to enter. "You know the drill—have a seat." Swiftly, he wedged his body between Heather and Grissom. Winking at Grissom, he said, "We'll wait in the other room and let someone else take this from here."

He closed the door, nodding in the direction of the observation room. "You and I can watch from there—and I don't want to know how you found her."

Grissom twisted his mouth and dropped his head as he followed Brass into the observation room.

 _A/N: Thanks for reading-those of you who review get our special thanks! Love hearing what you think!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading...more and longer!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 10**

When Brass stepped into the hallway, instinct caused D.B. to point to Sara. "You're doing this, Sara. Find out what she knows—and—we'll be here," he said, moving his finger to Greg and Catherine. "I don't have to say this—but keep it professional."

Taking a deep breath, Sara watched as Brass blocked Grissom from entering the interrogation room. After Heather sat down, Sara went in, ignoring Grissom who was standing in the hall.

The first thing out of Sara's mouth was: "This isn't an interrogation, Heather. We're trying to learn…" Sara placed her hands on the table. "There was an explosion at an elementary school this morning. We found an object with your fingerprint on it."

Sara's statement did not upset or intimidate Heather. Clinching her jaw against her anger, Sara knew Grissom had already told Heather about her fingerprint.

She said, "But, of course, you already know that." Pausing briefly, she continued, "Can you explain why your fingerprint was found there? The only one we found, by-the-way."

An imperceptible movement of Heather's head indicated "no". She said, "My house hasn't been habitable for two months. I'm waiting on insurance to begin renovations—my fingerprint could be found on a lot of things."

If possible, she seemed to pull herself straighter, shoulders back; defensive, Sara thought.

Sara asked, "Who would be using your house to build bombs?"

"I don't know."

"The terrace door was unlocked—frequently used. Someone has a key." Sara let her words settle as Heather face remained impassive but a change occurred in her eyes. Sara added, "It wasn't the hidden key on the porch."

"No," Heather said, her voice terse, irritable. "That's the one Gil found—he knew it was hidden." A patronizing smile cross her lips when she said, "We should be better friends, Sara—but, of course, that would never work."

Sara remained silent.

"I did not tell him about the house fire—he was already worried about—me. He—he found me at my other place."

Sara's mouth dropped open. Sudden anger caused her hand to slap the table. She said, "You don't know who had a key to your house?" Immediately, she regretted her anger. Quietly, she said, "We are not talking about Gil Grissom, Heather. We need to find a bomber—someone who has killed and will kill again—someone who made these bombs in your house!"

"I don't know who it is."

Determined to succeed—and control the interview, Sara said, "Tell me something you do know—anyone who is angry at you—a business deal gone bad, perhaps."

"I can help you, Sara." Heather leaned forward, "but not with this bombing. I don't know who has been using my house. But I do know Gil loves you very much."

Sara's anger flashed again. She managed to bite her lip, remaining silent.

Heather said, "Do you love him?"

As quickly as her anger had flared, it was gone as she suddenly realized no one—not one person had voiced Heather's question in all the time she had been in Vegas since she and Grissom had married. The tension and anger toward Heather disappeared.

She said, "I love him very much."

Heather's silent acknowledgement came in the form of blinking her eyes. In a whisper, she said, "He wanted to protect you, Sara. He—I had your phone number in—in case anything happened to him."

"You knew where he was? What he was doing?"

Sara did not wait for an answer. She pushed back her chair, got up slowly, and left the room.

Outside, in the hallway, Grissom had come from the observation room and nearly collided with Sara.

"Sara?" He said as he reached for her arm.

Shaking him off, she walked around him.

D.B. and Catherine were right behind Grissom.

Sara said, passing both of them, "She doesn't know anything."

Quickly, Catherine caught up with her. "You don't know everything, Sara." Taking Sara's arm, she walked with her to the layout room where the FBI had been working. "Her granddaughter died—killed on the way to school. She closed up her counseling practice about the time there was a fire in her house."

Photographs covered a large board—photos of Heather, her daughter, her granddaughter, the house; Lady Heather's old web page, phone records, bank records were showing on computer screens. Catherine walked past everything until she reached the computer showing phone records.

"You're going to learn this sooner or later, Sara. It looks like Grissom has been in contact with Heather—for—for at least two years. Recently, the calls increased." She scrolled through several months of phone calls. "I'd like to slap him."

Sara did not know what to think; her mind was boiling with possibilities but she kept her anger checked.

"Do you think she could have created those bombs? Is she guilty?" Sara asked.

Catherine's eyes rolled as she said, "She has nothing else to live for! She tried to sell her own murder! Remember that!" Catherine punched a photograph of Heather, saying, "I think she could be a killer—so yes, she could make a bomb!"

At that moment, alarmed voices filled the hallway. Phones started ringing as people rushed by. Catherine's phone buzzed with a text message ten seconds before Sara's.

Their eyes met after reading the brief text. Another bomb—this time at a community center—where a dance recital was taking place. And the bomb was strapped to a young girl.

Sara looked at Catherine, saying, "How did Heather do this when she's been with us?"

Catherine tossed her hair, shrugged her shoulders, and left the room, calling for her team.

Standing alone for several minutes, looking at all the information that had been gathered about Heather, Sara was baffled. A fingerprint did not make one guilty of building and detonating bombs. The death of Heather's granddaughter—Alison, Sara remembered—was a tragedy, heartbreaking, but, as Grissom had told her once, Heather was a strong woman.

Grissom, the thought of him caused pain so intense; Sara placed her hand over her mouth to suppress a sob. She blinked back tears, determined not to cry.

They had a bomber to catch.

Instead of leaving with the others—the FBI and the bomb squad would not let anyone near the place until it was cleared—she returned to the lab and the evidence already collected.

She found David Hodges working on a puzzle—putting pieces together that had been found in the school room.

"I'm impressed," Sara said, thankful to have something to do other than think about Heather and Grissom, as she looked at four plastic boxes containing somewhat recognizable objects.

"I need something to do," Sara said.

Hodges passed a box of evidence bags to her. "Take your pick."

Asking as she opened a small envelope, "Have you found anything similar to the piece with the fingerprint?"

Eyebrows lifting, Hodges asked, "You don't think it's Heather?"

Bending over three miss-shaped pieces, Sara said, "I think the fingerprint is too obvious. Heather's smart; she is probably depressed, but I don't think she's building bombs and blowing up Vegas."

Hodges chuckled, saying, "That's very generous of you, Sara."

She laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound.

An hour later, they had found two pieces similar to the one with the fingerprint.

"Let's run this one in the machine—maybe it can be identified—even give us what it was at one time," Hodges suggested.

A few minutes later, the analysis rolled on screen showing toys made from similar plastic.

Sara and Hodges looked at each other. He clicked on one of the photographs. "It's made in the USA," he announced. He clicked again. A toy tea pot came on screen.

Sara reached for the pieces and held them against the screen. "I think it's the same thing," she said.

Walking back to the table where Hodges had placed the piece with the fingerprint in a clear box, Sara held up both pieces, frowning as she tried to imagine a toy tea pot. The bomb had damaged all three pieces so badly that it would be impossible to fit them together.

"We could try restructuring," Hodges suggested.

At that moment, Grissom walked into the lab. Sara and Hodges were quiet for a minute until Grissom asked "What have you found?"

Hodges was the first to find his voice. He said, "We're trying to figure out what the fingerprint was on." He pointed to the crumpled piece in the box. "Maybe a toy."

Quietly, Grissom said, "I know Heather donated most of Alison's toys to a charity. She—she's had a difficult time."

Silence followed his statement as the three seemed to be at a loss for words.

Finally, Sara said, "You—you stayed in touch with Heather but you couldn't call me after telling me to 'get a life' and 'it's time we move on'—Gil, what do you think a marriage is supposed to be?"

Hodges' head spun in Sara's direction; she continued to look at the box. He turned toward Grissom.

"I—I didn't want you hurt—I didn't want to hurt you."

Sara's hand hit the table in anger. "Hurt me? Hurt me? You hurt me when you—you wanted an official separation—a divorce—and said it over the phone!" Her voice cracked but she continued. "You come back here and act like you left yesterday! You—you know what hurt—having to bury your dog and you didn't know he was sick! Having a stalker and I can't confide in you because—because you don't answer my calls! Hurt? Gil, do you even know what that word means?"

Hodges had stepped back when Sara's voice cracked. His eyes tracked back and forth between the two. Grissom had turned to look at her and in one swift move, Grissom caught Sara in his arms, his lips met hers. Hodges was certain Sara almost resisted—for eight seconds—and then she was kissing Grissom. Really kissing.

Hodges kept backing away. He had been hurt once in love and what he was seeing was pain dissolving into happiness. He walked out of the room, did not bother to close the door—the lab had glass walls—and called D.B.'s phone.

 _A/N: Enjoy! We appreciate your comments!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Another chapter-we will probably post multiple chapters tomorrow, hoping to end this one before Sunday-but then maybe we should continue for a while after the finale movie-_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 11**

Breathless, Sara stepped back; she had no intention of this happening. She wanted to swear, but the man's sheepish smile, his tantalizing eyes seemed to swallow her intent.

"We—we need to talk, Gil. In private—not in this lab," she managed a gruff laugh, "not with David Hodges standing between us."

When Grissom shrugged, glancing around the empty room, saying, "Looks like we're alone now," she wanted to walk away—and did turn away.

She said, "D.B.'s office—your old one—we need to talk." Then she did walk—striding as fast as possible without running—toward D.B.'s office.

Once inside, she closed the door and the blinds. When she turned toward Grissom, he looked as comfortable as he had ever looked, hands in pockets, that teasing smile on his face.

It took a force she seldom used to vocalize her words, forcing down raw emotions, as she said, "I want explanations, Gil." When he made a move toward her, she held up her hand. "I can't—I don't want this to be physical—don't touch me—I want an explanation!"

When he responded with a puzzled look, saying, "I'm so sorry, Sara."

Rushing her words, she replied, "I don't want to hear it—I want to know why you disappeared from my life for nearly two years! I want to know how—why you knew where to find Heather Kessler! I want to know how—why you kept in touch with her—and not me!" She whirled around, pulling one of the chairs in front of her, using it as much for support as for a barrier.

He winced. "Don't be like that, Sara. No matter what has happened to you in the past, you've always been sweet, kind, and that's what is so endearing—what I love. Don't change. I—I know I've done a terrible thing to you—but don't change. You would not be Sara—my Sara—anymore."

Sara could not believe what she was hearing. Doing a half-turn, she stared at the wall—at nothing—for a long moment. When she turned to face him, he could see her eyes, brighter, harder.

She said, "I am not 'your Sara'—I never was! You want to place me in a frame like one of your butterflies! You want me on a shelf until the day you—you decide to pick me up and approve of what I'm doing! All the years I've loved you, Gil, and you're still chasing something I don't have—something I can't give you." Her voice trembled as she continued. "You are chasing something out there that you'll never have! When you could—if only you'd give us a chance—you could have everything a man could want—you are like that moth beating its self to death against a flame when out in the cool night there are so many more things to enjoy!"

She turned her back to him so he wouldn't see tears falling from her eyes as she placed her hand over her face.

A few seconds later, she felt a tissue touch her hand and took it. She felt Grissom's hand on her shoulder, across her back, pulling her to his chest. Softly, he said, "I've been so wrong—about so many things." Whispering, his voice soft against her ear, "I am sorry—I've been selfish—leaving you alone, abandoning all the plans we made. And we did make plans—not just your plans—and like an idiot, I walked away."

"Why, Gil? Why did she know where you were?" Sara said, her words muffled into his shirt.

He did not let her go as he moved another chair so they could sit, facing each other. Keeping her hands in his, he said, "Explanations provide no reason for hurting you—I got busy with other things—forgot to make time for the one person I love more than all others." He grimaced, "It's a bad habit I have."

Shifting so their legs intertwined, he leaned closer, moving her hands with his to his chin. "In Japan, I heard about, then saw what was happening to dolphins—something you never want to see. Not just dolphins, but sharks—killing thousands to make soup. After that, I went to Mexico—and I was studying butterflies for a while but then a couple of other men and I went fishing. We couldn't believe what we were seeing—massive slaughter of these wonderful fish—all for their swim bladders! To use in soup."

As he related his story, Sara's mouth opened and closed several times. He crossed the border several times, all legal entries, he said, and then he had someone approach him about a loosely organized group named 'OceanPeace'.

"I agreed to work with them—but was advised to be transparent, sell property or put it in someone's name, keep family contact to a minimum. I—I only had you—I didn't want to get you involved with—with this." He kissed her hand. "I needed to provide one contact—and—and I wanted to protect you. It doesn't make any sense, does it? But I didn't want you to know what I was doing—and we were breaking laws."

He lifted one hand to her face and wiped a track of tears away. "I—I knew—I knew if I got in trouble you'd come, but I did not want that—you have always been on the side of good, righteous causes and you'd insist on being there."

"What did you do?"

He smiled slightly, saying, "We'd wreck boats, steal their nets and lines—stuff like that—small stuff, really. Last year, two other guys and I decided we'd go a little higher and follow the boats carrying—smuggling—the 'catch'—in this case it was fish bladders. So, we made three trips to San Diego. One of us would go onboard, take photographs and upload them to Fish and Wildlife in California. We always included the boat's registration and owner—and that's how I was caught—trespassing."

Sara made a soft laugh. "Fish bladders—only you, Gil—and Nick got you off? Bless him—what if he had not been there?"

"That's one of the reasons we try to be transparent—I'd sit in jail for a while, I guess—OceanPeace doesn't have attorneys or bail money—that's the risk you take." He sighed, adding, "that's why I had Heather as a contact—no one would ever put the two of us together—no one looking for me. I'd send her an email to let her know I wasn't in jail or dead."

He passed his hand over his face. "Several months ago her granddaughter was killed in an accident—she was grief stricken, but she was getting better, I thought, getting out and going to a support group."

Sara interrupted, saying "I don't think she's the bomber."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

After a prolonged moment of silence, Sara said, "I don't understand—but yet I do. I would have wanted to go with you—I could never understand why—why you disappeared."

"I should not have done this to you, Sara. I knew what I was doing could land me in jail—or worse—and I couldn't bear to think of you trying to rescue me!"

She bristled, "You'd rather have me crying myself to sleep at night, asking what I had done wrong?" She closed her eyes, tears leaking down her cheeks, and pulled herself away from his hold.

"Forgive me, Sara. I've made such a mess of things."

As he watched, she seemed to pull strength from thin air. Squaring her shoulders, wiping tears from her face, she transformed into the person he had loved, observed, and never fully understood for years. Her chin tilted upward; her eyes brightened, not with anger, but determination.

"I'll always love you, Gil—always. You have to decided if you love me—as a human, as a wife, a companion. I can't make you do that." She sighed, drew in another deep breath, and stood up, extending her hand. "We have a bomber to catch—and maybe, just maybe, I have a clue."

A/N: _Thank you for reading and reviewing! Even thanks to the "guest" who says we've read the script-you gave us a laugh!_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The response to this story has amazed us! Thank for reading-one or two more chapter to go!

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 12**

Catching the bomber had taken priority over everything else and in the short time Sara and Grissom had been in D.B.'s office, the first real break occurred.

The bomb technician had successfully removed the bomb vest from the girl in the community center. She was safe and able to tell how someone had grabbed her in the bathroom, strapped the device on her and gave her instructions—'walk into the dance recital and show the audience what she was wearing'. She had also given a description: "He was tall and had stuff in the janitor's cart, a mask covered his face."

In the bathroom, a recording had been left. The janitor's cart was in the lab garage.

As they all watched the video, a distorted voice promised more bombings; the face was obliterated by a computer-generated swirl. The hands were covered in thick gloves.

Suddenly, Grissom asked, "Can we get into Heather's house?"

"Not through the front door," Catherine said. Scowling at Grissom, she added, "I would think you had a key to all her doors."

D.B., who was trying to play peace-keeper between all the agencies, personalities, and turf-claimers, said, "Heather was going over to see that it was closed up after we released it."

He looked at his phone for a few seconds and then said, "I want Morgan at the community center with the FBI guys. Greg—work with the cart. Hodges has enough to keep busy for another month." He sighed, "If you two," he pointed at Sara and Grissom "can meet Henry at the bomb range, the FBI wants a video of that. Henry can bring it back and then you can go by Heather's place." Waving a finger between he and Catherine, he added, "We are going to see if we can get more out of this video."

It was later, after the bomb vest had been placed on a make-shift mannequin and blown up, that Sara remembered the idea that had popped into her head. When Henry headed back to the lab with the video, Sara and Grissom headed to Heather's house.

Sara asked, "Why do you want to go back there?"

Grissom shook his head, "I want to look around. Can I use your phone?"

She handed her phone to him, and, from memory, he punched in a number. A minute later he was telling Heather Kessler they wanted access to her house; she agreed to be there. When he handed the phone back to Sara, his fingers grazed her hand.

Her response was to clench the steering wheel tighter.

When they arrived at Heather's house, the driveway was blocked by two commercial cleaning trucks.

"That was fast," Sara murmured.

Grissom touched her hand again. Softly, he said, "I have never loved Heather. Never. She was neutral, unlikely to be traced to me. There—there are some very angry and powerful people who will stop at nothing to protect what they are doing. I know this sounds cold, cruel, but—but I did not want those people coming after the woman I love."

Sara let out a long, slow breath. She felt as if she were at a crossroads, unable to determine which direction she should take. She remained quiet so long that Grissom got out, walked around the vehicle, and opened the door for her.

He remained by the door until she got out, and then he placed his arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the house. The front of the house was a jumble of hoses, waste containers, and working men. They walked left, to the terrace where, earlier, Sara had exited the house minutes before Grissom found the bomb.

They waited several minutes after knocking.

Sara said, "Let's keep this professional, okay?"

Grissom grinned, saying, "I've had a hard time being professional since I saw you on that dock, dear."

She rolled her eyes; a smile played on the edges of her mouth. Hearing footsteps, she quickly hid her smile.

Heather Kessler stepped out of the house, smiling, wearing another form fitting dress. It caused Sara to think about her clothes, the same ones she'd worn for longer than she wanted to think about.

After a moment of awkwardness, Sara extended her hand to Heather, saying, "I think you might be able to help us." She glanced away when Grissom gave Heather a brief hug—something he rarely did.

"I want to look around," he said. "I know the crime lab and FBI guys have swabbed everything, but—but I've been here before," he explained. "I don't know what I'm looking for."

Heather nodded her head, extending her hand in the direction of the door, offering free access, before turning back to Sara.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your granddaughter," Sara said. "I'd like to ask some questions."

Heather nodded, so slightly one would almost miss it. "Do you want to come inside? Or we can talk out here." She motioned toward a bench on the terrace.

The two women sat on opposite ends of the bench.

Heather spoke first, saying, "I'm sorry, Sara. About Gil—I offer my apology for—for not telling you before now. Many years ago, I learned not to question men about—about their lives and I've grow accustomed to keeping secrets. Gil and I had an arrangement; I guess you could say that's what it was. I was to—to meet with you if I didn't hear from him by the middle of each month."

Sara shook her head, saying, "That's not why I'm here, Heather. Everyone is trying to catch this bomber—who was using your house to make bombs."

"I've told others I have no idea who could be using this house."

"Gil said you were attending a support group. Do you know anyone in the support group?"

Heather shook her head. "I'm going because Jerome—Allison's grandfather—he's been so devastated and he thought if we both went, we'd find some—something—to help us grieve."

"Does Jerome know anyone—by name?"

Heather looked at Sara for a long moment. Then she stood and disappeared into the house, returning with a folded paper. She said, "I don't know any of them but here's the list of names. Not everyone comes to every meeting."

As Sara unfolded the paper, she asked, "Would anyone know where you live? That this is your house?"

When Heather shook her head, Sara started texting names to D.B. When she finished, she remembered another question. "I have to ask this—what did you do with Allison's toys? We think your fingerprint was on a piece of a toy—maybe a tea pot."

Heather sat down, abruptly, her face showing the anguish of memories. "Allison had a tea pot when she was small. It—it was probably in the house. I don't remember it when I packed up her things." A finger wiped across Heather's cheek. "I've cried so many tears, Sara. Jerome and I have decided to travel—fly to Europe, see Paris and Rome, maybe Barcelona."

"Venice—add Venice to your list," Sara said quietly. "It's a beautiful, fascinating city."

Heather lifted her eyes to Sara's. "You have visited some beautiful places with him." She hesitated and then said, "You can find that again—he loves you very much."

Sara looked away, saying, "He has a funny way of showing it."

"He does." Heather stood and headed into the house. "Do you know what he's looking for?"

Shaking her head, Sara remained seated. Heather went inside; Sara could hear men working in front of the house. A wind stirred through the trees, and for the first time in a long time, she lifted her face to feel the breeze.

Inside the house, the back staircase was free of workmen and debris. Heather knew Grissom would be upstairs—an innate instinct told her where to find him—and she was right.

"Why are you here?" She asked, standing in the doorway of a bedroom where, years before, he had slept—and talked.

"I—I don't know," he murmured. He was sitting on the window sill of the empty room.

"I'm selling this place—probably to a group of lawyers for their offices."

Grissom looked at her, suddenly feeling tired. He wiped a hand across his face. "I—I'm at a loss, Heather. I don't want to do this work anymore—I'll do it and Catherine gets my name off a terrorist list." He made an attempt to laugh. "Who would have thought I'd have made such a mess of things."

Heather walked to the center of the room. "You have a situation you can fix. There is a beautiful woman downstairs who will always love you. Her loyalty to you is a gift—she can go on without you, but I'm not sure you can live without her."

"Will she ever forgive me? For what I've done?"

A quiet laugh came before Heather spoke, "She loves you, Gil, and in love, there is always forgiveness."

Grissom's eyes met hers. "What will happen to you?"

Another quiet laugh and then, "I've never depended on another person until Allison came into my life. I—I thank you for her. And Jerome and I have made plans—we're going to travel—see some of the world."

He nodded and stood. "I need to find Sara."

"Downstairs—on the terrace. She has a bomber to catch."

The two walked out together but parted at the stairs, Heather saying she wanted to check on the workmen.

Grissom headed to the terrace where he found Sara—no longer sitting on the bench, but standing at the edge looking up at the trees; a breeze was blowing her hair and the afternoon sun formed a halo around her head. He knew he would be the luckiest man in the world if—if—his thoughts caused him to hesitate.

Sara turned, smiling. She said, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Stretching his arms toward her, he said, "I need you, Sara. I need your forgiveness—and I need to become a better person-a better husband."

Before she reached him, he noticed her chin tremble. A few seconds later, she whispered, "I do—I do."

Her arms slid around his neck, his across her back. Her mouth on his brought back sensual memories. Her arms held him tightly. It was as if he had never been away from her.

Behind them, the door to the terrace quietly closed and Heather Kessler smiled. Sometimes, she thought, you have to shove someone into love. She locked the door and then decided she'd have it boarded up.

 _A/N: Thank you for reading-you've made us realize that CSI and GSR fans are still coming to fanfiction...more to come!_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: The final chapter...or is it? Enjoy! We got a very sweet review from "Guest"...if it was you, we'd like to say thanks!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 13**

As Sara drove back to the lab, she decided she had made a decision; she loved Grissom and she was certain he loved her in his own way. And in his own way meant—she wasn't sure what it meant. So when they arrived at the lab, she was out of the vehicle as quickly as possible, got to the door, and held it open for Grissom.

Once inside, she heard the low hum of work. FBI agents had filled the lab; it looked like three or four agents were hovering over every person in the lab. With Grissom behind her, she kept walking until she found D.B., Catherine, and several others watching bomb patterns on a video screen.

When D.B. saw the two, he said, "The FBI finished with these. The pattern of explosion in the casino and the classroom match the one you guys blew up—from the community center."

"Did they take the names?" Sara asked as she and Grissom joined the others in front of the video.

D.B. nodded, saying, "Out of twelve names, they were quick to eliminate five of them."

Catherine interrupted, "And now the others are being interviewed."

For several minutes, the group watched as D.B. flipped between screens.

"So we just wait for the FBI to figure this out?" Sara asked, glancing at Catherine and then back to D.B.

Catherine answered, "It's a federal crime."

"So we just stand here and watch—bomb patterns?" asked Sara.

Grissom turned to the wall, now covered with another layer of photographs, addresses, and handwritten notes. Walking closer, he said, "There is a reason to this madness." He removed a photograph of the first bombing location and then the second place, saying, "What happened at these two places that would involve a casino, a school, and a community center?"

"Don't forget Heather's house," Sara said.

Grissom turned to Sara, holding up a finger. "I think the bombing at Heather's was—was caused because we got there and I stumbled on it. Set as a trap." He pushed photos of Heather's house to one side and began lining up other photographs.

After he had placed the photographs on the table, everyone stood silently for several moments.

Sara said, "The necklace—did we ever find out who she was?"

Grissom answered, "Heather said she had given necklaces like that to dozens of people who worked for her over the years."

Catherine, clearly frustrated, said, "Heather—why does every 'clue' go back to Heather?"

Suddenly, Greg and Morgan appeared at the door; Greg was holding several papers in his hand. "Guess what I found! Two of those on the list have crossed paths with Heather—I kept looking even after the FBI took over interviewing." With a flourish typical of an excited Greg, he handed D.B. two pages and photographs to Grissom. "One of these…"

One of the photographs showed a man in an obvious family group. Greg said, "I think it's this guy."

Everyone around the table raised eyebrows waiting for him to continue.

Grinning, he said, "Isn't this like old times!"

Four people said, at the same time, "Greg!"

"Okay—this guy had a family. Had a family—they were killed six months ago by a drunk driver—twelve years ago, do you want to know where he met his wife? Yep, Heather's dominion. Then they became the picture," he gestured at the photograph, "of domestic bliss—house, dog, two kids, regular jobs. Until six months ago, and then his family was gone. Guess where the drunk driver—was before getting in his car?" Not waiting or expecting answers, he continued, "At the strip mall—in a bar there. Guess where the guy's wife works—the casino!" With another flourish, he pointed to the school. "The drunk guy's daughter attends the school—and another daughter was supposed to be at the dance recital!"

D.B. read the name, "Mike Newman. Works as an electrician with a building contractor."

Catherine was already on her phone, moving Mike Newman to the top of the FBI's interview list. "They are already there," she said as she finished the call.

Everyone in the room seemed to breathe at the same time.

A few minutes later, D.B. spoke, "With everyone in the room—the people who will be affected by this—I—I have an announcement."

All eyes went in his direction as he continued, "It's time for me to make a change—I haven't been myself since Finn…and Catherine has helped to open the right door." He paused and placed a hand on Sara's shoulder. "I've resigned—signing on with the FBI. But Ecklie has agreed to put the lab in good hands." His arm went around Sara's shoulders. "If Sara wants the supervisor job, she has it."

 _Three months later:_

Carefully, Grissom selected one honey bee and gently placed an almost microscopic sensor onto its back. He placed three more sensors before he glanced at his assistant. Wearing netting that covered her face, draped to her chest, she had lined up four more sensors for him to place but she was watching the bees.

Totally unguarded and unmindful of herself, he knew she belonged in a category of exceptional women whose beauty radiated outward and had little to do with physical attributes. He felt an undefined longing in his heart; he smiled. He had been skeptical of what one's heart could feel, and truthfully, he knew it was in his brain, but he felt his chest swell with pride—she had given it up to be with him. In turn, he had given up the risky work of chasing smugglers.

Sara caught his eyes watching her and smiled.

"Are you happy here?"

She laughed, "Yes. There's no place I'd rather be."

Nodding in agreement, he lifted another bee onto his finger.

 _A/N: Do we add one more chapter? With a little more romance? Change the rating? We know we won't get that in the movie-so let us know-does it end here or one more chapter with a little sweet scene in a bedroom?_

 _Thank you for reading-and for all the reviews! We've been surprised at the reception of this story._


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Celebrating the end of a great series...a love story that will live on! Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing...this is probably the last chapter of this story...so enjoy!_

 **CSI: Endurance**

 **Chapter 14**

It was after midnight when Sara and Grissom let themselves into the small red-painted rented house on Honey Bee Drive. Sara had laughed for days every time she turned into the cul-de-sac but the name was appropriate since it was a less than a mile from the largest bee research facility in North America and surrounded by a four acre bee-friendly garden, dubbed Honey Bee Haven. Just like their neighbors, they would live here for four months while doing honey bee research.

Stepping over to a small white basket, Grissom said, "I didn't think we'd be out so late." He lifted the small fluffy dog into his hands. "I'll take care of this little fur ball."

Sara leaned over and ruffled the puppy's head, then kissed her husband. "Don't stay out too long—my baby needs to get to bed." He was almost certain she meant the dog.

Back outside, the dog on a leash, he let the dog sniff at blades of grass while he enjoyed the quiet, clear night. The air was cool; the sky seemed to dazzle with brilliant stars. And he realized he wanted Sara to enjoy this unspoiled beauty with him. By the time he gathered the dog and went back inside, he heard the shower running and his thoughts turned to memories.

They had remained in Vegas for two months, repairing a relationship that had been severely wounded but had not been killed. He considered himself a fortunate man.

Jim Brass has not been kind when he told Grissom: "Why didn't you cut her heart out and slice it into small pieces? She's the most loving, most generous, most unselfish person I've ever known—she'd have crawled through broken glass for you!"

Chastised, knowing he deserved his friend's words, Grissom had asked, "What should I do?"

Brass had laughed and said one word, "Grovel."

He had been in Vegas for two weeks. Sara was with D.B. in his last days as lab supervisor before she took the job and had not expressed a readiness to include him in her future.

She had been working eighteen to twenty hour days; the bombings, the FBI coming in, D.B.'s resignation, had knocked everyone off kilter. She had said he could stay at their house but Jim Brass had already offered him a room at the Eclipse. During the first week, they ate together three times. At the end of the second week, he had gone to the house and fixed dinner—just the two of them in a once familiar place.

When she came in, he could see smudges of fatigue under her dark eyes but she brightened at the simple meal he had prepared.

"You didn't have to do this," she said.

"I wanted to—I want us to talk, Sara."

She looked at him, holding her eyes on his. "What do you want, Gil?"

"A lot of things—but first, for you to forgive me."

Sitting down at the table, keeping it between them, she said, "I don't know what to do, Gil—about us."

"What I did was hurt you and make a fool of myself."

The beautiful eyes that held her soul looked at him for a long moment. She said, "Yes, you hurt me. Not just by disappearing, but every time I needed to tell you that I loved you, you pulled away. I thought it didn't matter—that you would know when you looked at me. I thought you would love me as much as I loved you—I'd think he loves me—he wants me. In my whole life, no one wanted me—not really. But I thought you did."

"I do love you, Sara. Please give us another chance."

Her calm demeanor almost had him in a panic.

"I was stupid," he said. "I want to be part of your life—the right part." He moved a chair so he could sit beside her. "We can live right here—you've made this place a beautiful home. I can—I've never really looked into working at the university but I can."

When she lowered her head, leaning toward him, he knew a healing process had begun. When he moved to kiss her, she retreated, but only slightly. His hands had moved to her face, stroking, murmuring, "Only one," but the kiss had become deeper until they were holding each other so tightly that neither could breathe.

"Can you forgive me?" He whispered. "I want to be in your life."

She said, muffled into his shirt, yet clearly, "Don't apologize again—you've never left my life. You have always been here." Her fingers traced across his face. "Let's start again." She laughed, softly. "I'm good at fresh starts."

Taking her hand in his, he said, smiling, "We don't need a new start—let's improve on what we had." He began to kiss her fingers. "I was afraid you'd decide you didn't want me…"

"Never."

At that moment—Grissom had been standing in the bedroom for several minutes as he remembered the night of their reconciliation—Sara stepped out of the bathroom wearing a towel around her damp body. The stare he gave her was one of blatant lust, so obvious that she laughed.

"You look like you've swallowed a moth!" She teased as she came to him. Kissing him, nuzzling his ear, she whispered, "Shower—you smell like smoke."

"Yes, yes—I'll be quick."

Their night out had been a backyard cook-out with fellow researchers and he had helped grill burgers and veggies. He laughed as he handed the dog to her.

"And Snowball is ready for her basket." He couldn't believe she had named their dog "Snowball".

The house had been built as temporary living space with no space added that wasn't necessary. The bathroom was so small with just a shower, that to turn meant bumping into a fixture or a wall or a door. The bedroom wasn't much larger—space for a bed—a double-sized one gave them enough room to walk around.

When he returned, she had changed into a short silky shirt, pale colored against her shoulders, and was stretched across the bed flipping pages in a book. For a moment, he stared at her, a hundred thoughts running through his head. Slowly, he walked to the bed, lowering himself beside her as she closed the book.

He took his hand through her hair, letting his fingers play with her loose, damp curls. She smiled, turning to him.

"This is romantic," she sighed, nuzzling her face into the curve of his shoulder. "It reminds me of my old apartment."

As he moved, the bed squeaked. "This bed is romantic?" He laughed, pulling her closer. "I remember that bed as small and noisy."

She giggled, "I could always find you in that bed."

"It wasn't big enough."

She was nibbling kisses from his throat to his ear.

"Maybe I'm wrong—maybe that bed was romantic."

She was teasing his jaw line, working her way to his mouth. "Sometimes we need a bigger bed, but not tonight."

His hands found the edge of her shirt, quickly pulling it over her head. After a deep breath, he had his towel off, pressing flesh to flesh.

Her body shimmered in the soft lamp light; her skin seemed to gleam like ivory. When his finger traced across her chest, her head fell back, a smile played across her lips. Gently, so gently, his fingertip traveled over the swell of her breasts. As his fingers traveled lower, to a place that was as soft as rose petals, her breath caught.

To Sara, she felt as if she had turned to water, rolling against a shore. He touched her with clever fingers, stroking, searching, seeking; trailing light kisses along the same places.

"You're making me crazy," she whispered.

A soft chuckle, "I know—I want to."

Taking her wrists when she reached for him, he ran their tangled fingers over her so that she felt her response to him, inside and out, as he touched his mouth to her. Patiently, erotically, he deepened his kisses, his touches, until her pulse thundered.

Time and place lost all impact; there was only here, now, and the two of them.

His lips crushed hers, his tongue explored, his frantic hands were joined by hers. He pressed into her, she lifted, urged, demanded he enter her body. The power and pressure growing inside her was all but unbearable. As breaths became gasps, she brought her mouth to his shoulder, savoring the clean taste of his skin. He kissed her ear as she reached to curl passionate fingers around him.

His fingers dug into her flesh as he lifted her to him. Tangled phrases and words came from his mouth; she understood each one. She met his eyes and felt the whip of sexual power when he plunged into her. Her back arched in that first rocketing flash of heat. It was like being consumed from inside out.

His weight on her, greedy for more, she wrapped her legs tightly around him, matching his fast rhythm, dragging his mouth back to hers so they could echo their intimacy with their tongues. There was only the sound of flesh against flesh, the heady scent of hot sex.

Sara felt his body go rigid, felt the pulsing waves as he poured himself into her, and seconds later she fell into that whirlpool of ecstasy, floating on waves of aftershocks.

With breath still burning in his lungs, Grissom levered himself on elbows to look at his wife. At his movement, she made a soft sound that unexpectedly aroused him. Gently, he stroked her hair, wiped sweat from her face, covered her mouth with his.

Softly, he said, "I love you, Sara."

As a response, she let her tongue dart out and traced his lips, slipping inside his mouth, and then retreat, playful yet erotic. With a soft laugh, she said, "I think this bed is perfect."

 _A/N: If we don't get the series ending we want-there is always another story! Thank you!_


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